


Monday mornings

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable Sherlock, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Bullying, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Homophobia, John Plays Rugby, M/M, POV John Watson, Tumblr Prompt, adorable nerds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6293902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt on tumblr which I've lost in the ether but involved John adoring Sherlock's hair in their chemistry class.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's more to come, I just wanted to get this first bit up because I am impatient and have very little impulse control. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Oh and this is unbeta'd because impatience and impulse control. All mistakes are mine and you can't have them.

It started on a normal Monday morning. Except this Monday morning wasn't the same as your normal Monday morning in the life of one John Watson, age 17. This Monday morning was the first Monday morning that John noticed. And once he'd noticed, he couldn't stop noticing. 

The boy was new, he'd just transferred to John's school right at the beginning of term. Some kind of genius, so the whispers went, and it must've been true because even though he was a couple of years younger the boy had started straight into the advanced classes. It'd only been a week but it seemed this new boy wasn't much for making friends. John felt a little guilty at that; he didn't even know the boy's name. Something posh though, from what he'd heard in the hallways. He'd glimpsed the boy before but it was a big school with lots of kids and he'd never really paid a lot of attention. His own group of friends was quite small; just Mike, who shared his ambition of becoming a doctor and incidentally, his desk in chemistry. And Greg, who he'd known since they were four. Then there was Phil, Carl, Vic, Seb and Tim from the rugby team, but he wasn't really close to any of them. 

It must be difficult, he thought absently, to start a new school so close to finishing and going off to uni. He couldn't imagine what it would be like, coming into a year group where everyone had pretty much grown up together and knew each other. Still, someone should make the effort to welcome the new boy. John liked to think he would've done it, if he hadn't been so busy. He had a lot on his plate this term what with playing rugby and studying to get the marks he'd need for medical school, not to mention his part-time job, his chores and looking after Mum. And Harry, sort of. Which reminded him, he'd have to take the glass bottles that had accumulated over the weekend to the recycling point at the back of Tesco one night this week. 

Dr Bradstreet, the head of science, cleared her throat and began talking about isotopes, shaking John from his thoughts. Chemistry wasn't his favourite subject but he did alright and he knew he'd need excellent grades in all his sciences for his foundation medicine course at Bart's. Dr Bradstreet was directing them to turn to page 394 in their textbooks when the door suddenly opened and the new boy walked in. Dr Bradstreet frowned at the interruption. 

"This class starts at 9am," she said sharply, "you're late."

The new boy flicked his gaze confidently around the room, never seeming to settle on anyone or anything for longer than a few seconds, then tilted his head as he turned back to the teacher.

"Yes, and? I'm here now, aren't I?" he said. Half of the class snickered and the other half looked at each other worriedly at this display of impertinence. Dr Bradstreet sighed.

"Take a seat, now, you're being disruptive," she pointed to where the rest of the class were sitting and waiting to see what came next, "and turn to page 394." The boy merely smirked and started towards the desks to take his seat. John was briefly startled to see the boy walking towards him. The boy took the only empty place directly in front of John, pulled out his textbook and immediately bent forward over it. And that's when John noticed.

The boy had thick, dark hair which curled in loose ringlets around his ears and the nape of his neck. His hair was longer than most of the boys in school but not overly long. The brown waves caught the autumn sunlight as it streamed through the classroom window and John could pick out hints of auburn, gleaming gently as the boy moved his head while he read. John was mesmerised, and immediately wanted to reach out and brush his hands over the curls to see if they were as soft as they looked. 

He belatedly realised he was supposed to be paying attention to isotopes and he tore his eyes away from that enticing mop of curls and back to his textbook. He ignored Mike's elbow in his ribs and tried to concentrate, but his eyes kept wandering back to the curly head in front of him. The rest of the class passed in something of a blur and before he knew it, John was being shuffled out of the chemistry lab and towards his French class. He laughed at Mike's good natured ribbing about his lack of attention, throwing an elbow as they jostled briefly in the hallway. 

"Come on, Jean," Mike teased, "we 'aff to get to ze French class. Zere are many words we must learn if we are to be, 'ow you say, seducing ze girls?"

"Yeah, yeah," John said distractedly, "ze girls."

Mike shrugged. "And ze boys, if zat is what you like," he murmured quietly. John blinked at him for a moment, feeling the beginnings of a blush creep onto his face. He stuttered a noncommittal reply and followed Mike to French, forcing himself not to watch out for a tall boy with luscious dark curls. 

\---

From that Monday morning, John kept catching himself not paying the slightest bit of attention in chemistry. He'd gone from being nearly top of the class to barely scraping through. All because of the boy in front of him. 

He finally managed to catch the boy's name after a couple of weeks and it was as posh as he'd thought. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Sherlock, as John had taken to calling him in his head (anything was better than "curls" and William somehow just didn't feel right), was utterly brilliant. Unfortunately he was also something of an utter arsehole. He routinely corrected Dr Bradstreet and when he wasn't complaining about the idiocy of his classmates, John included, he was doing his own thing with the experiments they'd been assigned. And that was when he did actually attend class, his absences causing Dr Bradstreet to sigh almost as much as his appearances. Secretly John thought Sherlock was quite right about them all being idiots in comparison, though he didn't care much for Sherlock's flagrant disregard of the truancy rules. 

And yet, despite his patchy attendance record and his arrogance and his tendency to piss off both the teachers and his peers, John found himself fascinated by the new boy. He'd wondered about the school Sherlock had been at before (posh, no doubt), what he did in his free time (more chemistry?), where he lived, if he liked sports (unlikely), who he hung out with after the last bell on a Friday afternoon. 

Well, that last one was easy enough to answer. Despite having been at the school for a couple of months now, Sherlock didn't seem to have made any friends. John often wondered how lonely it must be, not to have anyone to talk to, to muck about with, to tease about girls. And maybe... Boys too?

So far Mike and Greg were the only ones John thought had noticed, and neither of them had said anything outright. John hadn't expected them to, but was grateful that he wasn't being forced to explicitly state it out loud. He could say it to himself in his head though. Yes, he fancied boys too. He wondered what that meant, that he liked both boys and girls in that way. He wondered if there were any other boys at school who felt like that. He wondered if there were any boys at school who were gay. Statistically there must be, but who? He wondered if Sherlock could maybe possibly perhaps be... Like that? He wondered, and somewhere along the line wondering turned to hoping. 

Sherlock had apparently had plenty of offers but had turned them all down. Irene Adler had supposedly asked him out one day. He'd politely but firmly declined. At least, that was one version. The more salacious version was that Sherlock and Irene had hooked up her room one weekend but she'd kicked him out when he couldn't get her off. John didn't think that version was true, but it didn't stop the hot spike of jealousy he felt whenever he spotted Irene's neat bun in the canteen at lunchtime. 

There was another rumour that Sherlock was shagging Molly Hooper, the pretty girl Mike had had a crush on for ages but was too chicken to do anything about. John didn't think that one was true either, mostly because Sherlock barely seemed to notice Molly's attentions at all.

Not that John spent his time noticing Sherlock noticing anyone else, of course. He was busy, too busy, far too busy to be looking out for a tall boy with dark hair every second of every minute of every school day since that first week. That's what he kept telling himself, and Mike and Greg when they brought up how his eyes and mind wandered in class and at lunch and at rugby and... 

Well, alright, maybe he was allowing himself to become a bit distracted. But he was still doing very well. His biology and physics grades were superb, his French not so much but that was ok. It was extra credit anyway, it didn't matter as long as he passed. His maths and English were as good as they'd always been. 

Chemistry though, his chemistry was slipping. He'd just about managed to scrape a decent mark in one of the class tests last week, but he knew he had to knuckle down if he wanted to get a good mark in the prelim exams coming up. He'd never been exceptionally strong at the subject but the contrast of pale skin and mahogany curls directly in front of him were continuing to make it difficult to concentrate.

He knew he was in for some bother when Dr Bradstreet asked him to stay behind after class one day. 

"Sit down, John" the teacher said kindly, gesturing to the chair beside her desk. John sat down carefully and waited. 

"Is everything alright, John?" Dr Bradstreet asked. "Only, you were doing reasonably well in this class until recently and I can't help but notice that you seem to be having a hard time concentrating."

John tried not to flush and bit his lip. Yes, he was having a hard time concentrating but the reason wasn't anything he wanted his teacher to know about. 

"I'm fine," he said, hoping his tone was somewhat lighter than he currently felt. 

"Are you sure?" Dr Bradstreet said. "You know we're here to help you, right? With anything at all?"

John nodded and lapsed into silence again. He neither needed nor wanted his chemistry teacher's help. They sat for a moment and John avoided his teacher's eyes. She sighed and leaned forward, her voice going soft as she spoke. 

"John? Is everything alright... At home?"

The question threw John off a bit, and he frowned, a bitter anger swirling suddenly in his gut. He gritted his teeth at the implication in that. Yes, his mum had had a tough time since the divorce. But he was taking care of them, they were managing. It was fine, it was all fine. And anyway, it was none of Dr Bradstreet's business. 

"It's okay John, you can tell me," Dr Bradstreet told him. John just stared harder at the floor until she sighed again and turned away, rustling papers on her desk. 

"Okay, it's okay," she said in the same soft, placating tone. John was itching to escape now, and he glanced surreptitiously at the door. Dr Bradstreet cleared her throat. 

"I won't keep you any longer, John, I just wanted to check in with you. And to let you know that if your marks keep sliding like this, you're going to have trouble getting into that Bart's course I know you have your heart set on." 

John nodded, even though he already knew all this. He had a free period next and he fully intended to spend it in the library, going over his chemistry notes to revise for the prelim exam. He opened his mouth to say so when Dr Bradstreet cut him off in his tracks. 

"Which is why I've assigned you a tutor."

John gaped. A tutor?! He didn't need a tutor, he just needed a bit of time to catch up and he'd be fine. 

"Who?" He managed to ask. 

"William Holmes, he's going to tutor you," she said easily, as if John's stomach hadn't just fallen out of his arse. 

"He'll meet you in the library, he has a free period just now, same as you. Might as well get started, if you're going to be prepared for the prelim. Off you pop!" With that, she gestured to the door and John was dismissed. He stood up, grabbing his bag and closing the door behind him. He huffed a laugh to himself as he headed for the library. 

Sherlock Holmes was going to tutor him in chemistry. If he hadn't been screwed before, he definitely was now. 

\--- 

Sherlock was waiting for him in the library. It was quiet, not many students having a free period right before lunch on a Wednesday. John spotted his (gorgeous) curls on the far side of the room and ducked behind the nearest shelf to compose himself for a moment. 

How was he going to play this? From everything he knew about Sherlock Holmes going all gooey at him was likely to result in either instant dismissal or blissful ignorance of John’s intentions. And more to the point, what exactly were John’s intentions? Passing chemistry again, that’s for certain. But a small part of him hoped that Sherlock would enjoy teaching him, that they’d get on and maybe become friends. If it went so far as mutual agreement that they could stand to be in one another’s company for more than thirty seconds and they could manage pleasant conversation, John might even go so far as to see if there wasn’t anything more he could offer than friendship. If Sherlock wasn't like that, then he’d settle for friends. Just friends would be fine, he’d get over his silly crush. Eventually. The boy was brilliant, he deserved to have a least one friend to text and email and meet up with in the holidays and tell about uni and so on. 

John glanced around his shelf to see Sherlock gazing out of the window to his right. His tangled hair was catching the sunlight again, the coppery hints in the curls glowing warmly. His eyes were bright but somehow sad, and his mouth. His mouth looked soft but almost wistful. His profile was striking and unusual, with those sculpted cheekbones, and he had an overall air of effortless elegance to him, even just sitting looking out of a school library window. John wondered how he’d never noticed just how beautiful Sherlock was. Too busy only thinking about his hair, his brain supplied helpfully. Fuck off, he told it. 

Drawing a breath and squaring his shoulders, determined not to make a total arse of himself with this amazing, gorgeous boy, John rounded the shelf and practically marched over to the table Sherlock was occupying, settling himself into the chair opposite. 

Sherlock turned his head and suddenly that sad gaze became razor sharp as he took in all of John Watson (in his dubious glory). John sat still, steadfast under the microscope of Sherlock’s scrutiny. It was… Intense, to say the least, to be the focus of those wonderful eyes, but John was revelling in it. He felt stripped down, bare and raw. As if Sherlock could see him, all of him, in that single look. There was an honest openness in Sherlock’s appraisal, making John feel as though he were only looking because he was curious, not with any malicious intent. It was utterly thrilling. 

Sherlock blinked a little and glanced away in a manner John might almost have deemed shy. Too quickly the openness John had glimpsed was shuttered away and an unwelcome aloofness draped itself over the features John was now admiring up close. His voice, when Sherlock spoke, was resonant and deeper than John felt any kid of their age had a right to. 

“You’re late.”

John snorted. “Yeah well, I only just found out I had a tutor, so…” He said. Sherlock didn’t reply, just fixed John with a look of bored contempt. He flipped open his textbook and looked pointedly at John. 

Oh yeah. Right.

John got out his own book and flicked to the page they’d been studying. He looked back up to see Sherlock watching him closely again. Undaunted, John stuck out his hand. A tiny line appeared between Sherlock’s brows as he frowned slightly, his eyes drawn down to John’s outstretched hand. 

“John Watson,” John said lightly, and he smiled encouragingly. Sherlock cleared his throat and reached to shake John’s hand. Sherlock’s hands were quite frankly enormous, engulfing John’s for a very brief, perfunctory greeting, but they were warm and soft and John could feel callouses on his fingertips. He made a mental note to ask about those at some point. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock intoned. He sounded very bored. “Now, I hope you’re not a complete idiot or this will quickly become incredibly trying.”

John couldn’t help it; he laughed. Sherlock looked startled for a moment but schooled his face.

“I’ll do my best,” John said with mock seriousness. Sherlock huffed. 

“We’ll see,” he said curtly, then immediately launched into a detailed explanation of redox reactions. John scrambled to keep up and began taking copious notes as Sherlock talked, trying not to lose his train of thought by watching his tutor instead of paying attention to the subject matter. That's was what had got him into trouble in the first place. 

It was a long 45 minutes but for John it was over too quickly. He felt a bit overwhelmed but as though he now understood concepts he’d been struggling with much better following Sherlock’s somewhat terse explanations than he ever had with Dr Bradstreet. 

The lunch bell interrupted Sherlock mid-flow and he stood abruptly, gathering his textbook into his leather satchel. 

“Hey, wait a second!” John called, frantically picking up his things so he could follow Sherlock out of the library. 

“Same time tomorrow?” John gasped, dropping his bag and upending his rugby kit all over the floor. He cursed and bent down to retrieve it. 

“Fine,” he heard Sherlock reply. Sherlock paused in the doorway and turned slightly, his eyes cast downwards.

“You’re not a complete idiot,” he said, then he was gone. 

\--- 

John looked for Sherlock at lunchtime but he was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't really paying attention to Mike and Greg and the other lads as they sat down at their usual table, laughing and ribbing each other. He was thinking about his chemistry tutor; the way Sherlock’s eyes had lit up as he wrote down formulas and laid out the key concepts they’d been working on in class for John to absorb. He was terse, blunt and spoke at a ridiculous pace but John felt more confident in his knowledge after just that one 45 minute session. John was looking forward to spending more time with Sherlock, even if it was only to talk about chemistry. 

“Helloooooo, Earth to John Watson,” Greg said cheekily, waving a hand in front of John’s face. “What’s got you all dreamy-eyed and slack-jawed then?” 

John snorted and pushed Greg’s hand away from his face. “Nothing, nothing I’d care to tell you morons about, anyway,” he laughed, watching Greg’s mock pout droop even further down his face. 

“Aw, c’mon Cap!” Vic said, elbowing Seb who in turn caught the attention of the rest of the rugby team. Expectant faces turned in John’s direction, and he fought the urge to look for that head of dark curls just one more time. 

“Ah,” Seb said knowingly, and John suppressed an unbidden shiver at the sliminess of that simple syllable. 

“What?” Vic asked, frowning. Seb just smirked and looked away towards the other side of the canteen, where Molly and her friends were sitting. 

“John fancies Mary,” Seb announced, a cruel twist of his lips indicating just what kind of chance he thought John had with the most popular girl in school. His announcement was met with huffs and laughter from the rest of the team and John forced himself not to react. 

“I don’t fancy Mary,” he mumbled into his sandwich, surer than ever that he didn’t want to talk to anyone but Mike and Greg about his crush on Sherlock. 

Vic opened his mouth to make an undoubtedly caustic reply but was cut off by the bell ringing to signal the end of lunch and the start of afternoon classes. John hurriedly packed away his uneaten food and, before any of them could make further comment, dashed off to maths. 

Tim caught up with him just as he reached the door and stopped him with a hand on his arm. John startled and stepped back to let the other kids into the classroom, curious as to what Tim wanted. 

“John,” Tim said quietly. John’s patience was running out. He shrugged restlessly as Tim shuffled his feet. 

“I know you don’t fancy Mary,” Tim told him softly, “and I know who you do fancy.” 

John’s ears began to burn and he was sure he was turning an interesting shade of red but before he could respond Tim carried on. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell the others,” he whispered. He looked down at his feet sadly and then, shaking off whatever had made his shoulders slump like that, he took off down the hallway to his art class. 

Unsure of what to make of anything that had just happened, John stumbled into maths and buried himself in quadratic equations until hometime. 

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT. It's been like six months since I updated this. Oops. Very sorry. Much fluff in this chap.

The next few weeks passed quickly. John slowly made progress in his coursework (Sherlock’s breakneck speed and impatience notwithstanding),and John found himself becoming increasingly warm towards the irascible chemistry nerd. Sherlock’s enthusiasm for the subject was infectious; the light in his eyes as he explained complex equations, hands waving in front of his face, talking so quickly so as to forget to take the occasional breath. All too often John realised he had lost the thread completely, too captivated simply watching Sherlock. 

Gradually, Sherlock began to open up about himself. Understanding that this represented an enormous amount of trust from a boy who, as far as John could tell, had no other friends, John treasured every morsel he learned and every nugget Sherlock shared. He was not-so-secretly delighted that he got to see a side of Sherlock that no-one else had, thus far, even glimpsed. 

Their tutoring sessions continued in the library until, one afternoon, Sherlock unexpectedly announced that though his brother was home, they could study at his house that afternoon. 

“He’s an insufferable tosspot, but he should be occupied in his study,” Sherlock was saying as they made their way up a long gravel driveway. John just smiled - until the house came into view. 

“Holy shit, Sherlock,” he gasped as he took in the giant, sprawling estate, “this is all your house?!”

Sherlock looked vaguely embarrassed and shrugged. He rubbed his upper arm self-consciously and gestured for John to follow him. John was still staring up at all of the windows and fancy brickwork, but he didn’t fail to notice just the tiniest hint of discomfort on Sherlock’s part as he carried on distractedly rubbing his arm. Dismissing the thought for now, John followed his friend around to a side door and into the house. 

They made their way up an enormous staircase and Sherlock led him to a door at the end of the landing. He stood there nervously, but as John opened his mouth to ask, Sherlock huffed and swung open the door. Cautiously, John peered inside. 

The room was dim but cozy, and John looked around before stepping in behind Sherlock. Sherlock tugged off his long coat and tossed it carelessly over a chair, then stood in the centre of the soft carpet, hands on his hips and his eyes on John. John turned in a circle, a slow smile creeping over his face. 

Oh yes, this was definitely a Sherlock room, he thought. The clutter strewn chaotically all over every surface still seemed to have some form of order; there were papers and books, glassware obviously nicked from the school labs, an ant farm, a fencing trophy, a wooden model of a Spitfire - “My cousin’s,” Sherlock said, shrugging. 

John grinned at him and dropped his bag on the floor beside the ridiculously large bed. He sat down and smoothed the fancy sheets with one palm. “Right, where do we start then? Chapter 5?”

Sherlock looked at John curiously for a moment, then sat down at the desk and pulled out his own textbook. John watched him, admiring the graceful length of his neck, and didn’t miss the slight wince on his face as he reached down. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, and Sherlock began talking at his usual rapid pace, so John soon forgot it as he listened to Sherlock’s pleasant voice. 

John sat on the edge of the bed and tried to keep his eyes from drifting to Sherlock’s mouth as he talked, but it was a bit of a lost cause. He just had a very expressive way of talking, John told himself. It was natural to watch him as he explained things, hands waving about, lovely lips forming long words… Sherlock suddenly stopped in the middle of his sentence and looked up from his book. “John?” he asked.

“S’ok, just a bit thirsty,” John said, reaching into his bag to pull out his sports bottle and successfully hiding his blush. Sherlock seemed to frown at himself, and John wondered if he had noticed John’s staring. He was about to say who knows what to Sherlock when, twisting to put the bottle on the bedside table, he noticed something black and yellow peeking out from beneath the pillows. His hand automatically stretched out towards it when a sharp yelp from Sherlock arrested the movement. Too late - John’s fingers had already clasped the soft toy and he was cradling it in his hands. 

“Is this a bee?” John asked softly. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, well…” he mumbled, cheeks flushing a frankly adorable shade of pink. John bit back his smile and set the bee down on top of the pillows. He still had a stuffed rabbit wedged behind his headboard, he wasn’t going to make Sherlock feel bad about the soft toy in his bed. 

“So you like bees?” John said casually.

Sherlock glanced at him sharply. “Bees are fascinating creatures, John,” he sniffed. John smiled and nodded, trying not to show on his face how cute he thought Sherlock was being. Their eyes met for a moment and John swore he could feel Sherlock’s gaze poring through him, seeing everything he was thinking right then. 

A knock and the door opening snapped the eye contact between them, and Sherlock startled before schooling his face to one of disdain at the intruder. John looked towards the door and saw a tall young man with ginger hair, sharp eyes and a smug expression on his face. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock barked. Ah, the elusive brother then. John stood up and extended his hand. 

“I’m John,” he said, flashing his best smile, “Sherlock’s tutoring me in chemistry.” Mycroft didn’t say a word, and his eyes swept over John in much the same way Sherlock’s did. John decided instantly that he did not appreciate it when Mycroft did it; it somehow felt more intrusive and judgemental than Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock was looking because he was curious, Mycroft was looking for weaknesses to exploit, John thought. 

A look of open hostility passed between the two brothers and John hastily stuffed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He waited for what seemed like an age as some kind of frosty, wordless battle was fought over his head. Finally, Sherlock seemed to give in.

“Bit busy here!” he snapped. Mycroft merely tilted his head at his brother, raised one eyebrow and left the room. Sherlock snorted, stood up and slammed the door. John huffed a small laugh. 

“Your brother’s a bit of a twat, then,” John said matter-of-factly. He turned to look at Sherlock, who was rubbing his arm, his cheeks pinkened again. John raised one eyebrow in mockery and then they were doubled over, giggling. 

It was to be the first of many visits to that stupidly big house. They stopped visiting the library altogether, preferring to study in Sherlock’s bedroom instead. John learned that Sherlock played the violin beautifully, taking great satisfaction in the smile and flush on his face when John praised his music. Sherlock was also planning to go to uni in London; he had a distant relative with an empty flat right in the city centre, which she’d agreed to rent to him. John expressed his excitement about uni in London too, secretly thrilled that they’d be studying in the same city. 

Outside of school, John was happier and more settled than he’d ever felt. But in school, he and Sherlock hardly spoke. A fair bit of John’s time was taken up with classes and rugby practice, and Sherlock seemed to make a point of avoiding John whenever he was with his rugby mates. John tried not to be hurt by this apparent rejection; he wanted Sherlock to feel welcomed as much as possible, and yeah alright, part of him wanted to show off his incredible friend, show the other lads how much fun Sherlock could be, how amazing his endless curiosity and surprisingly silly sense of humour were. A few of the lads had made some odd comments, but John just shrugged them off. He didn’t really know Vic and Seb and Phil all that well, and Tim had been keeping himself to himself a lot. If Mike and Greg had noticed anything, they certainly hadn’t said so. It was all just a bit… odd. 

John was pondering this very thing as he packed up his kit after practice one Tuesday afternoon. He hadn’t seen Sherlock all day and their next chemistry tutoring session (which had slowly become a little bit of studying then just relaxed hanging out together, talking about all kinds of things - including bees) wasn’t til Thursday. He was leaving the changing rooms, thinking about just turning up at Sherlock’s house, just to check in on him, when Greg caught his arm. 

“John,” Greg said urgently, then tugged him over to one side as the other lads called their goodbyes on their way out. 

“What’s up Greg?” John asked, feeling a cold pit in his stomach. This had something to do with Sherlock, he was sure of it. Greg rubbed a hand through his hair and sighed, looking a bit uncomfortable. 

“Well,” he started, then stopped, looking over John’s shoulder. John turned to see Mike standing behind him. Mike simply nodded at Greg and John got impatient. 

“Well?” he asked again, a bit more harshly than he meant to. 

“It’s about Sherlock,” Greg sighed. John’s jaws immediately clenched. 

“What about Sherlock?” he ground out through gritted teeth. 

“He’s different,” Greg said quietly, “and he doesn’t make any effort to hide it.” He saw John’s expression and hurried on. 

“That’s not a problem, not at all! He refuses to be anything other than himself, it’s pretty cool actually,” Greg continued, “but it does make him stand out a bit. I mean, er, what I’m getting at John, is that Sherlock is… well he’s gay. And everyone knows it.”

John crossed his arms and regarded his friends coolly. “And you’re telling me this why?”

Greg sighed again and Mike stepped forward. “We’re telling you this because we think some of the lads have been making life difficult for Sherlock. I heard Vic saying that he knew Sherlock from before, that Sherlock thought they were friends and that Sherlock tried to kiss him once. Vic pushed him away and… well he said he punched his faggot face, John.” 

John could feel his own face growing hot with rage. He’d known Vic was a kind of a prick, but this! 

“Look, I had a quiet word,” Greg said. “I told them to lay off Sherlock, that that kind of shit wouldn’t fly and they should leave it alone, but I don’t think the message sank in. I mean, you must’ve seen the bruises, the amount of time you two spend together?”

John’s vision went red and he turned on his heel to storm off. Greg and Mike hurried to catch up as he marched across the pitch. Greg grabbed John’s arm and halted him in his tracks. 

“Don’t do anything stupid, John,” he pleaded. “Sherlock doesn’t want you to know, or he’d have told you, right? We’ll speak to the lads again and put a proper stop to it, ok?”

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, somewhat breathlessly. “I’ve been talking to Sherlock myself actually, he’s great!” 

This statement pulled John up short and he looked questioningly at Mike. Mike shrugged. “I like him,” he said simply. Greg nodded in agreement. 

“I mean, he’s blunt sometimes,” Mike carried on, then coughed. “All the time.” Greg laughed. “He’s so bloody clever though,” he said and Mike hummed and smiled at John. He didn’t quite hide his grin, and John felt his anger simmer down somewhat. Even if some of the rugby lads were total prats, these two were good friends. 

“Thanks for telling me,” John said gratefully, then swiftly changed the subject, his mind already on what he was going to say to Sherlock when he next saw him. 

***

It turned out that the rugby team’s bullying didn’t come up the next time John saw Sherlock. He found himself huddled over an enormous book about serial killers in the lunch break, listening to Sherlock’s hushed voice telling him all about H.H. Holmes in Chicago. Sherlock seemed fascinated, and John was happy just to listen. It was a really interesting topic anyway; how he’d gone so long without being caught. John didn’t think anything of it as they leaned over the book together, heads almost touching as Sherlock traced the drawings with his fingertips and explained the limited forensic methods of the time. 

Their little bubble was broken, however, when John looked up and saw Phil passing their table. John nodded his head and said hello as he normally would, but he couldn’t fail to notice how Sherlock’s fingers had tensed at the edge of the book. Phil looked at Sherlock in undisguised contempt. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up and he unconsciously clenched his fist, waiting for whatever Phil had to say. 

“What is it this time, freak?” Phil sneered. “Watch it, John, he’s probably getting himself off under that table!”

“No,” Sherlock replied casually, “but then under tables isn’t the best place for that sort of thing anyway. Is it? Perhaps you ought to be more careful when you’re using the janitor’s cupboard to cheat on your girlfriend, hmm? Polly? Holly?” Sherlock turned to John. 

“Sally,” John said, glaring at Phil as he tried not to laugh. Phil stormed away, red in the face, and John allowed himself a small chuckle. Sherlock snorted something that sounded like “idiot” and went back to the book. 

“That was brilliant,” John told him, “I don’t know what Sally sees in that twat though. How did you know?” 

“Oh, scuffs on his trainers,” Sherlock said dismissively. 

“Brilliant,” John said, grinning. 

“Obvious,” Sherlock retorted, not looking up. John didn’t miss the tiny smile he tried to hide, and was inwardly delighted. 

***

That afternoon, as John trotted off to rugby practice, he was still thinking about that tiny smile of Sherlock’s. It was almost like a ‘v’, that smile, curving his full mouth into an odd but lovely shape. He was looking forward to seeing it again at their tutoring session after rugby. 

As he rounded the corner to the changing rooms, John heard voices and harsh laughter. Remembering what Mike and Greg had told him, he crept towards the open door to listen in. He heard Phil’s voice first.

“It was gross!” Phil was saying. “You should’ve seen the way that freak was leering at John! And John didn’t have a damn clue!” At the sound of his name, John took the risk of sneaking a peek through the door. The boys were gathered around Phil, all pulling faces of disgust as they talked about Sherlock. 

“Yeuch!” exclaimed Seb’s voice. “How could he not notice that little fairy was hitting on him?! It’s pathetic, that’s what it is.” Carl loudly agreed with this and made pretend vomiting noises into his hands. 

Suddenly Vic stood up and snarled angrily. “It’s disgusting,” he spat, “that dirty fucking queer in our school!” 

John had heard enough. He stepped into the room and cleared his throat. The boys all turned to look at him in the doorway. Seb and Phil at least had the decency to look a little sheepish at being caught out, but Vic stared back at John in challenge. 

“Right then,” John said, crossing his arms. “That’s how you feel about it, is it?” Phil opened his mouth to reply but closed it again sharply when Seb elbowed him in the side. 

“Yes, it is,” Vic said defiantly. 

“Ok then,” John replied with icy pleasantness, “in that case you’re benched.” 

The reaction was immediate. Vic’s face went an ugly shade of red and he scowled in what he must’ve thought was a menacing way at John. John stood his ground. 

“You can’t bench me!” Vic shouted, “I’m the best player on this fucking team!”

John snorted. “That may be so, unlikely, but it might be true. Still, not having that kind of offensive, homophobic stupidity on _my_ team.” 

Vic’s mouth worked furiously as he continued to stare John down, but John didn’t blink and was absolutely not budging. Finally, Vic gave in, tossing his kit down in his fury. 

“Fine! I don’t want to be on a team that’s friends with faggots anyway!” 

John clenched his fists and suddenly became aware of a shift in the room. He was definitely outnumbered; Seb was backing off but Phil and Carl were itching to start a fight alongside Vic. 

“Alright then,” John said softly, and without warning, stepped forward. His swing was perfect and his left fist collided with Vic’s nose, making the other boy shriek in pain and stumble backwards. He felt a blow to his middle and moved to return it, but another punch caught him in the face. He staggered, pain blooming in his cheek, and spat a bloody mouthful onto the lino floor when yet another fist crashed into his mouth. In the ensuing scuffle, John couldn’t really tell if Seb had run off or joined in. After that, it was all a bit of a blur. 

***

John lifted his bruised hand up to the knocker on Sherlock’s front door. His knuckles were grazed, his cheek hurt and his eye was swollen. His lip had stopped bleeding, at least. 

Sherlock answered the door with his customary “John,” then John felt warm hands cradling his face. He winced and Sherlock instantly backed off. John regretted it, but dutifully followed Sherlock to the kitchen at the latter’s instruction. 

“You were in a fight,” Sherlock said, handing John a packet of frozen peas for his swollen eye. 

“Great deduction,” John huffed humorlessly. Sherlock sighed, and they sat at the kitchen table in silence for a moment.

“Rugby team?” Sherlock asked quietly. John looked up at him with his one good eye and nodded. 

“What I can’t figure out is why,” Sherlock muttered. “They’re you’re friends, what could possibly-”

John cut him off with a heavy sigh. “Look, it doesn’t really matter why, they’re just arseholes,” he said. “Well, some of them, at least.” 

Sherlock frowned and looked even more puzzled. He scowled at the table silently, then said:

“Vic? Phil? Seb? Which one gave you the black eye?”

“It doesn’t matter,” John insisted, but Sherlock wasn’t listening. 

“Can’t have been Vic, he doesn’t do physical confrontation well, just snide, hurtful remarks. Could be Phil but he’s unlikely to have swung for the face, he’s pretty cowardly. That leaves Carl, I suppose, but I still don’t understand why!” John looked up at the sharpness in Sherlock’s voice. 

“You came out on top,” Sherlock was saying, “but why, John? Why did they start a fight?”

“You’re assuming they started it,” John replied. Sherlock snorted again. 

“Of course they started it, John!” he said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Obvious!”

John laughed a little at that, then caved in. 

“Alright, they started it,” he said wearily. Sherlock looked triumphant for a moment then seemed to remember what they were discussing. “They said some pretty nasty things about a very good friend of mine,” John admitted, “and I wasn’t going to stand by and let them say stuff like that.” Sherlock just waited. 

John twitched irritably. “I told you, it doesn’t matter what they said, they’re just homophobic twats and I was sick of it.”

Sherlock nodded, but he still seemed a bit lost and puzzled. Eventually, he met John’s eyes. “I’d no idea Mike and Greg were gay, I’d thought I was the only boy at school who was gay. Well, me and Tim Dimmock, but I don’t think Tim is out, not like I am anyw-”

He stopped and a look of confusion passed over his face. John was gaping at him. “John?”

“Not Mike, or Greg, or bloody Tim Dimmock!” John exclaimed. “I was talking about you!”

For a moment Sherlock was silent. Then John could see the walls coming back up in his eyes. Oh no, no no no, he thought. Sherlock raised his chin in a haughty manner. John wondered fleetingly if he knew how much like his brother he looked when he did that, then instantly resolved never to tell him so. 

“I do not need your protection, John,” Sherlock snipped. “You don’t have to defend my honour, I don’t intend to come to school dressed in rainbow drag and shove it in everyone’s faces. I just don’t see why I should be ashamed of who I am.” 

John sighed. “Yeah, well that what friends do,” he countered, “they stick up for each other, rainbow drag or not!”

The silence between them dragged out as Sherlock froze, blinking rapidly. John put down the peas and was reaching for Sherlock’s arm to shake him when Sherlock inhaled sharply and the stiffness in his posture relaxed minutely. John quickly retracted his hand, just in case. 

“Alright?” he asked. 

“Y-you… you think we’re… friends?” 

“Yeah, course I do,” John said warmly. “In fact,” he continued feeling suddenly rather shy, “you’re my best friend.” 

The silence that followed this confession was even worse. John waited while Sherlock seemed to process this statement, hoping to all hell that he hadn’t just screwed something up. Finally Sherlock came back to life and immediately launched into a monologue about something or other - John wasn’t really listening. He indulged Sherlock’s brushing off of what he’d said simply because he could see how happy Sherlock actually was. 

John followed him up to his room, watching as that v-shaped smile stole onto his best friend’s face.


End file.
